


The Duke and Duchess of Clarence

by duchessofclarence



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchessofclarence/pseuds/duchessofclarence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of ficlets about life between George Plantagenet and his wife, Isabel Neville.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Duke and Duchess of Clarence

**Author's Note:**

> I must note that this series of ficlets are based on the television series, The White Queen, rather than the books by Philippa Gregory or historical notes on these particular characters - therefore, a lot of information may not be accurate but they are added as a fictional development on my take of George Plantagenet and Isabel Neville.

Isabel knew that this was a dream, and that she was immersed in the numinous land of slumber that she could not be roused out of in a delicate fashion. She knew that this was a dream world, for as she looked down she was met with a round belly beneath the dainty contours of her dress and the familiar sensation of a child growing and stretching in her womb. The senses were on fire as she could smell the slivers of smoke that wound away from the fire in the grate and she could feel each movement beneath her skin as her unborn child twisted and turned in his or her slumber.

God would not drown me in such heartache, she insisted to herself. She resisted the desire to reach down and cradle the round evidence of her unborn child due to the fear that it could diminish beneath her heart-rending touch. It had been twelve months since she had sent her dead child to the waves, and still she suffered so from the loss of her sweet son who did not even have the chance to gaze upon his mother’s face. Her hand trembled with adoration as she traced the roundness that protruded from her hips and settled beneath her breasts; she could feel the child flutter beneath her faint touch as her hand ghosted over the fabric of the dress.

However, before she had the chance to rest her palm upon her stomach and feel life beneath it, the sound of tinkling laughter broke into her reverie. Isabel dismissed it for moment or so until she heard the answering laughter of her lord husband; a sound that she could not mistake, for it was a rare moment when her husband would show a shard of mirth and merriment in their home. At first, she believed that he was displeased with her but she soon learnt that it was merely in his nature. She listened to the sounds of hushed voices and shuffling in the next room as she walked towards the door and pressed her ear on the hard texture of the wood.

“I wonder where my son could be hiding,” the thoughtful voice murmured from behind the door as more sounds of tittering laugher could be heard in response.

Isabel leant on the door to listen more intently to the one-sided conversation, but as her obtruding belly pushed against the wood she could feel the door creak open into the familiar dining room that she was so accustomed to. However, the scene that met her was not one of familiarity and her cheeks burnt with hot tears as she watched. Her husband was almost unrecognisable with flushed cheeks and a smile from ear to ear.

“Come Edward, do not make a fool out of your poor father,” he jested as he feigned to look around the room for the missing participant in this game of hide and seek.

The sound of a child-like chuckle alerted the Duke to the desired location and George followed it with determination. He paused at the foot of the table, leant down and lifted the crisp white fabric that concealed the wooden texture of their table. This is more than a dream, Isabel believed. Does God want to torture me? The fabric lifted to reveal the most beautiful boy that she had ever laid her eyes upon, for he had soft brown curls that framed his heart-shaped face and wide brown eyes that mirrored her husband and his own kindness. He was perfection, and he was hers.

“Look who has come to visit us,” George declared as he scooped the toddler into his arms with ease and adoration. The small boy had an ethereal face of innocence as he turned his sweet head and looked at her with so much trust and love. “It is your mama, finally come to join us for some food.”

Isabel turned her head and looked at the empty door behind her, almost as if she expected them to be talking of some other mama. Her ashen cheeks were tainted with endless tears as she wept to see her small son, alive and untouched by the ocean. Her husband settled the boy on the cobblestone floor of the room and immediately he started to stumble towards her in his child-like fashion, his little limbs stomping indignantly as he came nearer and nearer to his mother. Isabel knelt down as the boy stumbled into her arms. The Duchess could not conceal her sobs of relief as she held her baby in her arms: her alive baby that smelt of summer fruit and warmth.

Her small son reached forward with his clumsy hands and rested them on her round belly, and that was it. It was the family that she had wanted and had lost. Isabel touched his face and felt his soft skin beneath her nimble fingers; his red cheeks, toothy smile and dark curls made her weep even more. Give him back to me, God. She felt another hand on her own wet cheek and she looked above her to see her husband, one of those rare smiles on his brightened features.

“George,” she choked out between sobs. Her hands clutched at them both – her husband and her son with her unborn child between them. She tore her gaze from above and looked down at the little boy, to memorise the contours of his face before he would be snatched from her once more. However, instead of being met with the vision she had seen beforehand, she saw death. Her son lay in her arms with no more warmth around him; his skin was as blue as the ocean in which he was sent to rest.

“No, don’t leave me. Don’t fall asleep, sweet one. Mama is here.”

He did not stir, for he was as dead as he was the previous year in Calais. Isabel could feel the sobs wrack her entire form, and she cried and cried until she could no longer feel breath in her chest and she wished for her own swift death.

♛

Isabel awoke in a pool of sweat and with blankets tangled around her moist limbs. It felt like she had been submerged in gallons of water and now she had reached surface, for she panted and cried out at the sudden wave of reality from her dream world. Her fists clutched at the sweat-laced fabric around her and flinched when she felt the warm touch of her husband from beside her.

“It was but a dream, Isabel,” George murmured to her. “Return to sleep.”

It would have seemed like a cold encounter to an outsider, but Isabel had been plagued with nightmare after nightmare since the death of her child. She would awake in the midst of the night in the same state, enraged that her son had passed through her fingers once more and she did not have the strength to clutch onto him. George had reached out to her now and then to calm her nerves, but she would push him away.

This time, however, she had run out of strength on her own. She laid down next to her husband, her cheek pressed against the warmth of his back and her arm entangled around his middle in an attempt to slow down her racing heartbeat. George stiffened for a moment or two, perhaps unsure of how to proceed when his wife was in such a state. Isabel wept silently at his back for a few minutes, until he finally turned around to gather the trembling woman into his arms.

“I am sorry,” he murmured against her ragged hair. “I am so very sorry, Isabel.”


End file.
